POEMS ; 


BY 


WALTER     M.      LINDSAY. 


14  A  planet's  shot,  a  shade  which  followeth, 
A  voice  which  vanisheth  so  soon  as  heard." 


NEW  YORK: 

D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 

34G  &  348  BROADWAY. 

1856. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  "United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


/L71/-? 
/  8-5-6 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PRELUDE, 7 

THY  PICTURE, 9 

THY  NATURE  AND  MINE, 11 

THE  SHIPWRECK, 13 

THY  SOUL  AT  PRAYER, 15 

TO  THY  MEMORY, 16 

COME  FORTH, 18 

HUMAN  WEAKNESS, 20 

THE  DEAD  BLOSSOM, 21 

MY  HOPE, 22 

THE  SABBATH  BELL, 24 

MY  LIFE, 27 

OH!  COME, 29 

MY  DREAM, 30 

MY  WEALTH,..  ..82 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DO  YOU  REMEMBER? 33 

THY  SORROWS, 35 

THE  WISH, 30 

HOW  BEAUTIFUL  THOU  ART!  , 33 

CONSIDER, 40 

ERROR  IN  LIFE, 41 

HOPE, 43 

DREAM  ON, 44 

^THOU  KNOWEST  NOT, 47 

NO  MORE, 48 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  VINTAGE........ 50 

THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE, 52 

GONE, 54 

SINK  TO  THY  REST, 56 

A  CALM  UNKNOWN, 5S 

GRAVES, 59 

THY  FANCY  IS, 62 

WHEN  I  CONSIDER, 65 

WHY  NOT  CONTENT, : 06 

THE  JOURNEY  OF  LIFE, 67 

I  HAVE  BEEN  HAPPY, 71 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  YEAR, ., 73 

I  LOVE  THEE, 75 

TO  THE  PUREST, 76 

I  HAVE  OUT  WATCHED, 79 

THY  RULE, 80 

MY  SOUL, ....  82 


CONTENTS.  5 

PACK 

UNTO  THE  BROKEN  HEART, 84 

THIS  APRIL  MOON, 66 

I  WATCH  ALONE, 89 

WE  ARE  NOT  MASTERS, 91 

OH!  PROPHET  HEART, 93 

DREAMING, 95 

THE  HISTORY, 93 

THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER, 100 

OH!  MORNING  STAR, 102 

THE  COMING  SHADOW, 104 

REMEMBRANCES, 106 

THE  HARVEST  OF  LIFE, 108 

MY  SOUL  IS  DARK, 110 

RELIGION, 114 

TO  MY  SOUL, 116 

THE  DEAD, 118 

SOLITARY  PRAYER, 119 

PRAYER, ..121 

THE  PLOUGHSHARE, 123 

A  WINTER  NIGHT, ... 124 

I  KNOW  AT  LAST, 125 

TO  MY  SOUL, 127 

IT  IS  NOT  LIFE^ 129 

THE  TIDE  OF  ANGER,.  131 

FAREWELL, 134 

THE  SABBATH  MORN, 137 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE, ..  139 


G  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

EAELY  DEATH, 142 

A  LITTLE  WHILE, 144 

IF  HOLY  ANGELS.... 145 

IT  IS  A  YEAE, 147 

THY  LIFE, 150 

I  AMNOTFEEE, 152 

OH!  TEEE  OF  KNOWLEDGE, 154 

TO  HOME  EETUENED, 155 

I  HAVE  NOT  SEEN  THEE, 15T 

UNMOVED  WE  SEE, 159 

THE  HEAET  IS  SELFISH, 162 

UPON  THE  THEESHOLD, 166 

I  STOOD  ALONE, 168 

IN  VAIN, 171 

THE  CLOUD,. 173 

THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT, 17S 

MY  LOVE  NO  SOLACE  IS, 183 

MY  VISION, 187 

WE  MAY  BE  PASTED, 192 

THE  DEATH  OF  HOPE, 194 

CONCLUSION, 197 


PEELUDE. 

Oh!  memory,  let  thy  pilgrim  feet 
Unto  the  shores  of  youth  return  ! 

Where  golden  sands  and  billoivs  meet, 
Tlie  morning  lights  have  ceased  to  burn. 

Walk  silent  in  the  evening  gray, 
And  hear  the  voices  of  the  sea 
Repeat  the  story  of  a  day. 

That  never  shall  return  to  thee  ! 

BROOKDALE,  N.  Y.,  January,  1856. 


THY  PICTUEE. 

THE  grace  of  childhood  clings  to  thee, 

In  thy  maturing  youth  ; 
Thy  woman  looks  are  eloquent 

With  purity  and  truth  ; 
And,  in  thy  gentle  mien,  there  is 

The  steadfastness  of  Kuth. 

There  have  been  locks  of  richer  brown, 
And  eyes  as  calmly  bright, 

And  cheeks  that  blushed  a  rosier  hue, 
And  brows  as  marble  white  ; 

But  never  one,  whose  beauty  stirred 

The  heart  to  more  delight. 
2 


10  POEMS. 

Expression  such  as  thine  it  was, — 

As  beautiful  and  mild, — 
That,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

UpoK  the  painter  smiled, 
Beside  his  canvas  dreaming  of 

Madonna  and  her  Child. 

Thy  mind  is  like  a  placid  stream,     , 
Outspread  beneath  the  sty, 

That  mirrors  in  its  waters  all 
The  changing  world  on  high, — 

The  sun,  the  stars,  the  wandering  cloud, 
That  slowly  saileth  by. 

We  are  not  wholly  left  of  Heaven, 
While  such  remain  on  earth, 

Who  from  no  human  standard  take 
The  measure  of  their  worth, 

But  were  created  perfect  by 

The  Hand  that  gave  them  birth. 


THY  NATURE  AND  MINE. 

THOU  enterest  in  the  House  of  God, 

As  freely  as  a  child 
Its  father's  presence  ;  for  on  thee 

The  Holy  One  has  smiled, 
And,  in  thy  breast,  a  dwelling  made 

For  nature  undefiled. 

Between  thee  and  the  hosts  of  heaven 
Is  spread  no  sombre  cloud  ; 

The  angels  answer  to  thy  need, 
When  thou  in  prayer  art  bowed. 

Thy  whisper,  at  the  Holy  gates 
Their  lips  repeat  aloud. 


12  POEMS. 

But  I — whene'er  I  seek  to  pray — 

Feel  that  the  words  alone 
Have  passed  my  lips.  My  heart  within 

Is  closed,  as  with  a  stone  ; 
And  my  sepulchred  soul  is  left 

To  mate  unheard  its  moan. 

Unless  an  angel  break  the  seal, 

And  roll  that  stone  away, 
I  shall  until  the  end,  remain 

In  darkness,  though  the  day 
Break  clearer  in  our  common  sky. 

Oh  !  wherefore  then  delay  ! 


THE  SHIPWKEOK. 

AH  !  blame  me  not,  if  I  have  been 

A  shipwrecked  man. 
Thou  canst  not  tell  how  strong  the  tide 

And  current  ran. 

The  same  sweet  scenes  are  round  thee  now, 

As  in  the  past : 
Thy  sheltered  ear  has  never  heard 

The  ocean  blast. 


14  POEMS. 

The  slenderest  bark  can  safely  float 

In  waters  still, 
But  whirlwinds,  on  the  stoutest  ship, 

Must  work  their  will. 

I  could  not  breast  the  wintry  storm, 

And,  evermore, 
Must  make  my  home  among  the  weeds 

Upon  the  shore  ! 


THY  SOUL  AT  PEAYEB. 

THIS  Sabbath  morn,  thy  soul  has  made 

Anew  its  peace  with  heaven  ; 
Thy  chamber  is  the  temple,  where 

Thy  offerings  are  given. 
And  yet  thou  prayest,  not  alone 

At  morn  and  evening  hours  ; 
Thy  holy  thoughts  to  God  ascend 

Always. — As  the  flowers 
Unconscious  of  their  sweetness  are, 

Yet  breathe  it  on  the  air 
In  all  their  day,  so  thy  pure  life 

Is  an  unceasing  prayer. 


TO  THY  MEMORY. 

YES  !  thou  art  fair  ! 
I  had  not  thought 
Again  to  be  by  passion  wrought 

To  such  excess  of  love, 
But  that,  in  absence,  I  could  bear 

A  mind  above 
Its  influence,  and  control 
The  movements  of  my  soul. 


TO   THY    MEMOfcY.  17 

As  unto  one, 

Who  hung,  in  other  years, 
A  harp  between  the  trees, 

Which,  silent  long, 
Again  renews  its  melodies, 
And  wild  aerial  song, 
My  life  to  me  appears  I 
Time  has  restrung 
The  loosened  chords,  and  now  among 

The  rocks  and  valleys  wild, 
Which  all  my  pathsvays  in  the  world  beset, 
I  linger  yet, 
Again  a  child  ; 

For  angel  songs  are  in  my  eaf, 
When  thou  art  near  ! 


COME  FORTH. 

COME  forth,  beneath  the  heaven, 
While  yet  the  sunlight  in  the  sky 

Shineth  on  the  brow  of  even. 
No  shadow  clouds  thy  gazing  eye. 
Behold  the  beauty  of  the  earth ! 

The  waters  lie 

Encompassed  by  a  glorious  frame 
Of  earth  and  sky  ! 


COME   FORTH.  19 

In  all,  thy  spirit  is  content. 

The  absent  are 
Forgotten  in  the  firmament ! 

The  evening  star, — 
The  murmur  of  the  Summer  wind, — 

The  leafy  trees  around, — 
Are  in  thy  silent  heart  enshrined. 

A  deeper  peace  has  found 

Sweet  access  to  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Is  calm  as  Nature  in  her  rest ! 


HUMAN  WEAKNESS. 

As  men  toil  up  the  mountain  side, 

The  weary  day, 
And  from  the  top  behold  the  sky, 

Yet  far  away ; 
So  holiest  men,  from  youth  to  age, 

Make  pilgrimage  J 

We  may  depart  the  valleys  deep, 

And  high  ascend ; 
But  yet  around  us  is  the  earth, 

Until  the  end. 
Ourselves,  alas  !  we  cannot  raise 

Above  our  days  ! 


THE  DEAD  BLOSSOM. 

THE  blossom  died  in  early  May, 
Before  I  knew  its  sweeter  prime  j 

No  mellow  fruit  upon  the  bough 

Shall  hang  in  Autumn's  harvest  time. 

Alone  the  naked  tree  shall  stand, 

Fruitless  in  the  teeming  land. 

But  when  the  Winter,  chill  and  drear, 
Whirls  the  leaves  on  every  side, 

All  shall  then  as  naked  be 

As  the  tree  whose  blossom  died. 

For  in  the  Winter,  none  can  say 

Which  has  blossomed  in  the  May. 


MY  HOPE. 

SHALL  I  reveal  to  thee  my  hope  ? 

It  is  that  I  may  be 
Soon  conscious  of  thy  maiden  love  : 

Then  shall  the  darkened  sea 
Break  glorious  on  the  coasts  of  earth;- 

The  freighted  argosy 
Shall  spread  its  sails  unto  the  wind, 
And  leave  the  barren  past  behind. 


MY    HOPE.  23 

Perhaps  to  me  the  future  wears 

A  hue  more  bright  than  may 
Adorn  it,  when  the  sun  shall  look 

Upon  the  noon  of  day  ; 
But,  to  my  hope,  a  golden  orb 

Seems  shining  on  the  way, 
Undimmed  by  all  the  clouds  which  lie 
Thick  strown  beneath  the  morning  sky. 


THE  SABBATH  BELL. 

How  like  a  knell 
Sounds  the  far  off  Sabbath  bell ! 

Not  unto  me 

The  summons  speaks  an  accent  glad, 
Eternity 

Hath  meaning  sad 
Unto  my  faint,  prophetic  soul  1 
The  ages  shall  their  circuit  roll 

In  endless  gloom. 

From  the  low  portals  of  the  tomb, 
I  see  the  dark  procession  go, 
Dumb  in  its  ecstasy  of  woe  ! 


THE    SABBATH    BELL.  25 

Oh!  Sabbath  bell! 
My  weary  ears  remember  thee  ! 

Upon  the  swell 

Of  that  uncertain,  clouded  sea, 
Which  bounds  the  voyage  of  our  life, 
My  shallop  rose  and  fell 

In  frolic  glee, 

When  first  thy  echo  came  to  me  ! 
I  did  not  heed  thy  warning  note, 

But  hoisted  sail, 
And  watched  my  shallop  outward  float. 

Oh  !  spirit,  wail 
The  long,  long  voyage  from  the  shore, — 

The  wreck  upon  the  sand  ! 
Oh  !  spirit,  wail  the  chance  that  bore 
Me  desolate  to  land  ! 

Oh!  Sabbath  bell, 
To  me  thou  soundest  as  a  knell ! 


26  POEMS. 

For,  wandering  on  the  silent  shore, 

I  look  upon  the  sea, 
And  know  that  sorrow,  evermore, 

Companion  is  to  me. 
In  shipwreck,  it  alone  remained. 
It  points  me  to  the  ebbing  wave, 
It  points  me  to  the  sand, 
Where  it,  with  spectre  hand, 
Is  digging  at  my  shallow  grave  ! 


MY  LIFE. 

As  one  may  see  the  laden  ship, 

Moored  near  the  shore 
By  slender  cables,  safely  ride 

The  waters  o'er, 
While  whirlwinds  toss  the  sea  to  foam,- 

My  life  abides. 
Thy  love  is  my  sure  anchorage : 

The  changing  tides 

Of  circumstance  but  stretch  the  chain  ; 
The  ship  floats  safely  on  the  main. 


28  POEMS. 

But  all  the  coasts  of  Time  are  set 

With  rock-bound  shores ; 
And,  if  the  slender  cable  broke, 

The  laboring  oars 
Unto  the  sea  were  stretched  in  vain. 

The  leaping  wave 
That  spendeth  now  its  force  in  spray, 

Would  to  a  grave, 
Beneath  the  angry  billows,  bear 
The  laden  ship  that  rideth  there  I 


OH  !  COME. 

OH  !  come  to  me  in  dreams  to-night ! 

Beside  me  sleeping  stand  ; 
And  bending,  touch  my  troubled  brow 

With  gentle  hand  ! 

My  waking  heart  is  weary  with 
Its  longing  watch  for  thee  ; 

Oh  !  therefore  in  a  vision  come, 
And  look  on  me  ! 

So  came  the  angels,  in  the  past, 
To  those  who  inly  prayed  ; 

And  for  thy  coming,  holiest  wish 
My  soul  has  made  ! 


MY  DEEAM. 

How  sweet  were  toil,  if  thou  wouldst  be 

Companion  to  my  lot  ! 
Beneath  the  heaviest  burden  then 

My  soul  would  murmur  not. 

Nay,  all  the  labor  of  the  day 
Were  lightened  by  the  thought, 

That  each  swift  moment,  to  thy  side 
My  steps  at  evening  brought. 


MY   DREAM.  31 

The  times,  unto  our  converse  left, 

Were  stars  within  the  sky 
Of  an  unclouded  Summer  night, 

Sweet  love  !  if  thou  wert  nigh. 

My  many  cares  at  evening  hours, 

When  all  my  toil  was  done, 
Would  gently  rest,  as  folded  flowers 

Await  the  morning  sun  ! 


MY  WEALTH. 

I  AM  not  poor,  with  love  like  thine  ; 

Thou  art  the  sunshine  of  my  heart ; 
My  empty  cup  is  brimmed  with  wine, 

When  I  remember  what  thou  art. 

In  thy  sweet  face  my  future  lies, 
Thy  words  an  endless  music  are  ; 

And  hope  has  kindled  in  thine  eyes, 
The  light  that  guides  me  near  and  far. 

What  though  I  own  nor  house,  nor  land, 
Nor  sway  the  minds  of  kindred  men, 

While  I  a  wealth  of  heart  command, 
Which  spent,  returns  to  me  again  I 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER  ? 

Do  you  remember 
One  who  wandered  at  your  side, 
In  the  dusk  of  eventide, 

Many  months  ago, 

While  the  snow 
Yet  lingered  in  the  valley  green  ? 

The  ember 
Smoulders  on  the  hearth,  unseen, 

Throughout  the  weary  day, 
When  those,  for  whom  it  kindled  first, 

Are  far  away. 

Thus  I  remember  I 
3 


34  POEMS. 

For  thee, 

The  skies  are  calm  and  bright, 
And  to  thy  far-off  sunset  shall 
Succeed  a  starry  night. 

But  we  shall  be 
Apart  on  life's  unresting  sea. 

Like  to  an  isle  in  Tropic  seas, 

For  ever  fair 
Thy -life  shall  stand  ; 

While  we 
The  storm,  or  Summer  breeze, 

Alike  shall  bear 
Yet  farther  from  the  land, 
'Till  some  to-morrow's  dawning  light 

Shall  glance  upon  the  troubled  wave, 
And  here  and  there  reveal  a  spar, 

Tossed  high  above  an  ocean  grave. 


THY  SOKKOWS. 

THY  sorrows  are  the  ministers 

Of  God  unto  thy  soul. 
They  pour  the  drop  of  bitterness 

Into  the  golden  bowl, 

Whose  sweetness,   else,   would  steep  thy 
heart, 

In  worldly  bliss  alone. 
Keceive  them  as  ambassadors, 

Sent  from  the  Holy  Throne 
To  the  beloved  of  the  earth, 

And,  through  the  blinding  tear, 
The  glory  of  their  angel  form 

Unto  thee  will  appear. 


THE  WISH. 

FOKGIVE  me;  if,  in  sadder  hours, 

I  wish  thy  earthly  path 
Was  not   through  sunshine   and  through 
flowers ; 

For  now  thy  journey  hath 
No  need  of  a  sustaining  hand, — 

No  need  of  friendly  cheer ; 
A  sunlit  pathway,  through  the  land, 

Leads  on  from  year  to  year. 


THE   WISH.  37 

Hadst  thou  been  born  to  other  fate, 

And,  wandering  on  alone, 
Beached,  with  sad  heart,  the  iron  gate, 

Between  whose  portals  shone 
The  watch-fires  in  the  fields  of  life, 

How  gladly  had  I  then 
Thy  footsteps  guided  through  the  strife 

Of  myriad  struggling  men  ! 


HOW  BEAUTIFUL  THOU  AKT  ! 

How  beautiful  thou  art ! 
In  the  sad  silence  of  an  hour, 
Wherein  I  knew  my  heart 
Would  never  more  on  earth  have  power 
To  win  confession  of  thy  love, 

Into  my  soul 
Thy  image  sank  ;  and  though  above 

Its  surface  roll 

The  angry  tides  of  human  life, 
Yet  nature,  in  the  endless  strife, 
Shall  leave,  untouched,  the  tender  grace 

Of  thy  remembered  face. 


HOW  BEAUTIFUL   THOU   ART  !  39 

How  wild  was  that  vain  dream, 
In  which  I  thought  thou  wert  mine  own  ! 

A  moment,  on  the  stream, 
The  shadow  of  my  life  was  thrown, 
And  then  it  passed  in  sunlight  on  ! 

The  buoyant  tide 
Eemembered  not  the  bared  tree, 

That  drooped  beside 
Its  waters,  wandering  to  the  sea, 
But  swept,  in  fuller  beauty,  free, 
By  castle  wall,  and  fertile  plain, 

Unto  the  boundless  main. 


OONSIDEE. 

FOK  some  wise  purpose,  known  in  heaven, 
Thy  life  approached  to  mine  ; — 

The  full-orbed  moon  unto  the  sea. 
Upon  the  waters  shine 

Its  rays,  and  swell  them  to  a  tide 
That  will  not  more  decline. 

We  cannot  say  unto  the  wave, — 
Break  on  the  land  no  more, — 

Although  it  crumble,  day  by  day, 
Our  dwelling  on  the  shore, 

And  sweep,  at  last,  in  angry  foam, 
The  shattered  roof-tree  o'er. 


ERKOR  IN  LIFE. 

I  DO  deceive  myself,  like  unto  him 
Who  sees  the  clouds  at  even, 

Crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
Uprising  in  the  heaven, 

As  battlements, — and  dreams  that  far 
Within  their  shadow  lies 

The  Holy  City  of  our  rest. 

Alas  !  how  soon  the  skies 
3* 


42  POEMS. 

Are  darkened  by  the  hand  of  night  ! 

And  he,  who  waited  long 
To  see  the  golden  gates  unclose 

Before  the  heavenly  throng. 
Which  should,  once   more,  sing  songs  of 
peace, 

Shall,  haply,  only  hear 
The  anthem  of  the  gathering  storm, 

In  thunders  chanted  near, 
And  see  the  driving  clouds  enwrap 

The  glory  of  the  skies. 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  the  heaven 

We  watch  with  mortal  eyes  ! 


HOPE. 

NONE  are  so  lost  on  earth,  but  that 

A  final  prayer 
May  win  them  mercy  in  the  skies. 

The  judgment  there 
Is  tempered  with  sublimest  love. 

Wherever  cast, 
And  though  a  shipwreck  thou  hast  made 

Of  all  the  past, 
Yet  may  thy  humbled  soul  uplift 

A  prayer  to  God, 
Who  pities  ever  those  who  bow 

And  kiss  the  rod. 


DEEAM  ON. 

DKEAM  on.     I  know  thy  visions  fair 

Find  not  their  type  in  me. 
The  common  form  of  life  I  bear. 

No  deeper  mystery 
Than  lingers  round  the  lives  of  all, 

Attends  my  simple  lot. 
Mine  is  a  nature  to  be  known, — 

And  then, — to  be  forgot. 


DREAM  ON.  45 

Thy  heart  would  give  its  reverence  to 

Some  character,  which  rose 
Above  the  earth.     An  Alpine  peak, 

Crowned  with  eternal  snows, 
And  glittering  silent  in  the  sun, 

Contents  thy  spirit  more, 
Than  do  the  empty  fields  which  lie 

Way-trodden  at  thy  door. 

So  let  them  rest.     For  thee  my  hand 

Plucked  up  the  weed  and  thorn, 
And  scattered  wide  the  fruitful  seed. 

But  though  the  growth  had  borne 
The  harvest  of  a  holier  life, 

The  change  unto  thine  eye 
Had  brought  no  gladness  ;  therefore,  let 

The  grain  unripened  die  ! 

Better  the  desert,  with  its  drift 
Of  parched  and  barren  sand, — 


46  £OEMS. 

Better  the  sterile  rocks, — than  see 
Such  growth  ungathered  stand. 

I  care  not  much;  if  blight  and  storm 
Shall  come  and  wither  all. 

Thou  hast  not  cared,  when  they  have 

bloomed, 
And  wilt  not,  when  they  fall ! 


THOU  KNOWEST  NOT. 

THOU  canst  not  tell  how  strong  and  deep 

Thy  hold  on  me  has  grown, 
The  ivy  has  sent  down  its  roots 

To  the  foundation-stone  ; 
And  it  will  live,  when  rock  and  wall 

Alike  are  overthrown. 


NO  MOEE. 

MY  heart  no  more  can  clothe  its  hope 

With  drapery  of  dreams, 
I  have  awakened  to  the  truth. 

How  cold  and  sunless  seems 
The  pathway  of  departing  youth  ! 

Our  manhood  is  such  day 
As  men  in  Arctic  seasons  know, 

Where  twilight's  broken  ray 
Kevealeth  the  unchanging  snow. 


KO   MORE.  49 

No  blush  of  Summer  bloom/ 
No  glory  of  the  Spring  is  there, 
The  rugged  lines  of  life  appear 

The  deeper  in  the  gloom. 
The  currents  of  the  younger  soul 

Are  frozen  hard  and  fast : 
The  breath  of  passion  changes  to 

A  cutting  wintry  blast. 
God  help  the  wanderer  who  must  go 

This  Arctic  path  alone, 
And  die  within  the  wilderness, 

Forgotten,  or  unknown. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  VINTAGE. 

I  EAKLY  gathered  all  the  fruit 

Within  the  vineyards  of  my  heart, 
And  filled  and  drained  my  cup,  as  if 

The  new-found  wine  would  ne'er  depart. 
And  so  I  lived  from  day  to  day, 

Until  I  saw  the  lessening  store, 
And  learned  to  know  the  vintage  time 

Would  come  to  me  on  earth  no  more* 


THE  LAST   OF   THE   VINTAGE.  51 

Since  that  sad  wisdom  was  revealed 

I  watch  with  more  than  miser's  art, 
Whatever  now  remains  of  all 

Once  stored  within  my  burdened  heart. 
I  dream,  perchance,  that  what  is  left 

Has  ripened,  on  the  restless  sea, 
To  richer  worth,  than  all  I  spent 

In  young  and  thoughtless  revelry. 


THE  STKEAM  OF  LIFE. 

THE  bubbling,  shallow,  noisy  brook; 
Late  born  in  yonder  grassy  nook, 
Leaps  out  into  the  open  day, 
Like  to  a  frolic  child  at  play. 
A  pebble  throws  it  from  its  track, 
Or  rolls  the  limpid  waters  back ; 
And  the  small  pressure  of  the  hand 
Its  utmost  efforts  can  withstand. 

Yet,  even  in  that  circling  play, 

The  channel  wears  a  deeper  way. 

The  neighboring  streamlets  downward  glide, 

And  mingle  with  the  growing  tide. 


THE    STREAM    OF    LIFE.  53 

The  ^dew-drops  from  the  evening  sky, 
Fall  on  its  bosom  silently  ; 
The  Summer  rain,  the  Winter  snow 
Are  mingling  in  its  calmer  flow. 

Between  the  hills  the  deepened  stream 
Soon  wanders  silent  as  a  dream  ; 
Its  waveless,  but  unresting  tide 
Crumbles  the  nearing  mountain  side. 
How  few  who  see  the  river's  force, 
Eecall  the  fountain  at  its  source. 
And  the  small  obstacles,  that  gave 
A  path  to  its  resistless  wave  ! 


GONE. 

I  LOVE  no  more.     The  April  flower 

Has  withered  in  the  Summer  sun  ; 
It  bloomed  throughout  its  filling  hour — 

The  harvest  time  has  now  begun. 
The  fields  of  life  encumbered  stand, 

Perchance,  with  nobler  growth  to-day  ; 
And  duty  guides  the  laboring  hand, 

From  ruddy  morn  to  twilight  gray. 


GONE.  55 

But  yet,  although  the  harvest  yields 

Unto  my  toil  a  rich  return, 
I  stand  among  the  flowerless  fields, 

And  for  the  growths  of  April  yearn. 
The  violet  springing  by  the  brook, 

Wild  wandering  downward  to  the  sea, 
Was  lovelier,  in  its  sheltered  nook, 

Than  are  the  harvest  fields  to  me  ! 


SINK  TO  THY  BEST. 

SINK  to  thy  rest,  oh  !  glorious  sun, 

And  draw  the  veil  of  night 
Around  thy  couch  within  the  west  ! 

Hail  !  to  the  starry  light 
That  trembles  in  the  upper  sky  ; 

And  to  the  full-orbed  moon, 
That  slow  and  silent  wanders  on 

Unto  her  silvered  noon  ! 


SINK    TO    THY    REST.  57 

How  like  a  Queen  she  reigns  in  heaven  ! 

Supreme  in  all  the  throng, 
Whose  choral  voices  yet  repeat 

Creation's  earliest  song. 
Look  upward,  through  the  boundless  night, 

Oh  !  wondering  soul  of  man, 
And,  to  the  breadth  of  endless  space 

Compare  life's  narrow  span  ! 


A  CALM  UNKNOWN. 

A  CALM,  unknown  for  weary  days, 

Upon  my  spirit  fell. 
While  lingering  by  thee  yesternight. 
It  was  as  if  the  swell 

Of  ocean  broke  no  more 

In  surges  on  the  shore, 
But  silent  touched  the  nearing  land. 

I  trust  the  Summer  peace, 
Then  brooding  o'er  the  waves  of  Time, 

May  only  know  increase. 


GRAVES. 

I  SOMETIMES  stand  at  eventide, 

Among  a  thousand  dead, 
Who  were,  by  hands  of  those  they  loved, 
Well  sepulchred. 

Many,  I  knew  in  other  years, 

When  they  and  I  were  young  ; 
With  some  have  stood  at  close  of  day 
These  scenes  among. 

The  marble  tablet  tells  their  worth,- 

The  sorrow  of  their  friends. 
With  such  brief  record,  all  their  tale 
Of  being  ends. 


60  POEMS. 

I  touch,  with  lingering  hand,  the  grass 

That  o'er  them  richly  grows  ; 
And  mark  their  stature  by  the  mounds 
Which  them  enclose. 

There  are  no  footprints  round  about , 

The  dead  are  left  alone. 
The  goal  of  man's  affection,  is 
The  burial  stone. 

Why  wish  for  stately  monuments 

Above  us,  when  we  die  ! 
The  sad  memorial  only  meets 
The  stranger's  eye. 

He  reads  the  name  with  careless  glance, 

And  then  straightway  departs, 
The  hands  of  men  remember  us, 
But  not  their  hearts. 


GRAVES.  61 

As  well  the  pauper's  nameless  grave, — 

The  sleep  of  friendless  men, — 
As  be  entombed  in  marble,  and 
Forgotten  then ! 


THY  FANCY  IS. 

THY  fancy  is,  that  he  alone 
Can  rule  thy  woman  mind, 

Whose  nature  hath  to  iron  grown. 
Unto  a  will  defined, 

And  absolute,  thy  love  it  seems 
Will  wholly  be  resigned.  ? 

I  cannot  such  a  conqueror  be  ; 

I  do  not  ask  for  power 
O'er  those  I  love. — As  well  assert 

Dominion  o'er  the  flower 
That  fills  with  sweetness  all  the  breath 

Of  morning's  purest  hour. 


THY   FANCY   IS.  63 

It  is  no  portion  of  the  love 

Which  in  my  heart  I  bear, 
To  master  thy  unbroken  will, — 

It  may  its  freedom  wear. 
The  wider  realm  that  love  unfolds, 

With  thee  my  life  would  share. 

Nature  has  made  thee  equal  to 

The  proudest  of  us  all, 
In  that  high  gift  of  intellect 

Which  we  our  province  call ; 
And,  though  I  bow'd  in  life  to  none, 

I  could  not  thee  enthrall. 

My  vision  hath  been  to  create 

Such  sympathy  of  heart, 
As  will  enable  thee  to  bear 

On  earth  an  equal  part 
Of  joy  and  care  alike. — For  this 

Thou  nobly  fitted  art. 


64  POEMS. 

I  yield  my  being  up  to  thee, 
As  earth  in  silence  lies 

Beneath  the  arching  heaven  : 
Enriching  from  the  skies, 

In  sunshine  and  in  cloud  alike; 
Its  noblest  treasuries. 


WHEN  I  CONSIDER. 

SOMETIMES,  when  I  consider  all 

The  tumult  and  the  stir 
Of  daily  life ; — how  often  Truth 

Mocks  at  the  worshipper 
Who  cleaves  unto  her  earthly  robe  ; — 

How  envy,  pride  and  hate 
Can  poison  deep  the  friendly  cup, 

And  closest  hearts  unmate  ; — 
The  sunshine  seems  to  lose  its  light, 

And  all  the  beauty  fades 
From  hill  and  valley,  from  the  fields, 

The  sea,  and  forest  shades. 
4* 


WHY  NOT  CONTENT. 

OH  !  why  is  not  thy  soul  content 

To  let  the  future  find 
Its  anchorage  where  now  thou  art  ! 

Else  may  the  changing  wind 
Part  us  upon  the  deep, 
Although  my  heart  shall  keep 
Such  watch  as  shipwrecked  men  maintain 

Upon  a  sail  at  sea  ; 
For,  unto  vision  lost,  the  hope 
Some  storm-girt  night  may  be  ! 


THE  JOUKNEY  OF  LIFE. 

How  can  a  wanderer,  far  astray, 
Discover  where  he  missed  his  way, 
When  phantoms  mock  his  straining  sight, 
And  all  the  sky  is  dark  with  night  ! 

At  early  morn,  with  buoyant  heart, 
They  watched  him  from  his  home  depart. 
The  April  sky  was  calm  and  bright  ; 
The  clouds  were  touched  with  rosy  light : 
And,  in  the  shadow  of  the  dawn, 
The  fading  moonbeams  glimmered  wan. 


68  POEMS. 

He  said  it  was  a  cloudless  day  ; 
He  could  not  miss  his  easy  way  : 
That,  long  before  the  noon,  his  eye 
The  golden  city  would  descry. 
And  he  beneath  its  turrets  dwell 
Before  the  evening  shadows  fell. 

A  moment, — and  the  boy  was  gone 
Across  the  rising  ground  ; 

And  then  his  footsteps  mingled  with 
The  multitude  around. 

The  tears  upon  his  earnest  face 

Too  soon,  alas !    were  dry, 
So  full  of  wonders  was  the  place 

That  met  his  eager  eye. 
The  busy  crowd  swept  to  and  fro, 

And  sported  on  the  track  ; 
Some  onward  ever  seemed  to  go, 

And  some  were  loitering  back. 


THE   JOURNEY    OF    LIFE.  69 

c  The  way  is  rough  and  hard/  they  said, 
6  We  cannot  climb  the  mountain's  head  ; 
And  know  not  if  the  rugged  height 
Does  not  to  other  steeps  invite/ 

Again  there  came  a  goodly  band 
Of  youths  and  maidens,  hand  in  hand  : 
They  stopped  upon  the  neighboring  green, 
And  danced  the  stalwart  oaks  between. 

'  The  day  is  long  ;  this  calm  retreat 

Is  sheltered  from  the  noonday  heat  ; 

And,  when  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 

Upon  our  journey  we  will  go. 

For  why  is  all  around  so  fair, 

If  none  were  meant  to  linger  there  ?  ' 

At  morn  he  listened  to  the  young, 
And  laughed  and  danced  the  gay  among ; 
And  when  the  sun  was  overhead, 
He  thought  of  what  the  elders  said. 


70  POEMS. 

The  mountain  hourly  seemed  to  grow 
More  distant  to  his  weary  gaze, 

And,  as  he  mused,  the  single  path 
Was  hidden  in  the  evening  haze. 

Far  up,  a  lofty  pinnacle 

Gleamed  in  the  fast  departing  light  ; 
A  beacon,  and  a  sigh  of  fear 

Unto  his  unbelieving  sight  : 
For  there  the  temple  glimmered  through 

The  darkness  of  the  growing  night. 

A  beacon, — yet  the  day  was  past, 

And  all  the  valley  deep, 
Was  shadowed  in  the  silence  of 

A  never-ending  sleep. 

The  mother,  standing  at  her  door, 
Saw  not  her  erring  offspring  more  : 
Nor  did  the  temple's  opening  gate 
Receive  the  wanderer,  coming  late. 


I  HAVE  BEEN  HAPPY. 

I  HAVE  been  happy.     Time  has  been, 

When  privilege  of  life 
Was  glorious  to  my  bounding  pulse  ; 

When  all  the  eager  strife 
Of  manly  effort  for  the  laurel  crown, 

Created  in  my  soul 
The  joy  of  an  Olympian  game. 

The  chariots  by  me  roll 
While  I  stand  idle  on  the  earth, 

For,  unto  me,  the  race 
Has  lost  its  charm  : — I  care  not  who 

Attains  the  foremost  place. 


72  POEMS. 

What  matter  if  the  strife  were  done  ! 
What  matter  if  the  race  were  won  ! 

Once  I  could  live  for  self  alone  ; — 

Once  the  applauding  breath 
Of  multitudes,  had  even  strown 

The  path  to  early  death 
With  flowers. — Once,  beauty  and  the  love 

Of  woman,  seemed  to  be 
The  ornaments  of  life,  from  which 

'Twere  wiser  to  be  free, 
Save  in  the  mirth  of  festal  days. — 

Once  Hope  a  vesture  wore, 
With  jewels  rich  and  Tyrian  dyes. 

Such  dreams  return  no  more. 
Were  all  mine  own,  my  heart  would  bear 
Only  a  larger  weight  of  care  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  YEAK. 

THE  sober  days  of  Autumn  now 

Are  garlanding  the  Year 
With  withered  leaves  and  faded  flowers, 

And  grasses  dead  and  sere. 

The  coronal  of  Spring  is  gone. 

The  Summer's  later  glow 
Has  paled  before  the  chilling  wind, 

And  in  the  early  snow. 


74  POEMS. 

The  Year  is  dying,  day  by  day, 

And  soon,  a  wintry  night 
Shall  seal  its  closing  vision  to 
The  darkness  and  the  light. 

It  will  not  sleep  in  earthly  grave, 
But  every  heart  will  bear 

A  portion  of  its  ashes,  in 
Our  pilgrimage  of  care. 


I  LOVE  THEE. 

I  LOVE  thee,  as  the  hunted  hind 

Thirsts  for  the  water  brook, 
When  far  across  the  desert  sands 

She  turns  a  weary  look. 
Sometimes,  unto  her  straining  eye, 

There  seemeth  to  appear 
A  distant  lake  and  palm-girt  shore, 

But  as  she  draweth  near 
The  waters  vanish  in  the  sky, — 

The  palms  no  more  are  seen. 
She  knows  it  was  a  vision,  yet 

Her  failing  strength  has  been 
Outworn  upon  the  desert  bare. 
What  wonder,  if  she  dieth  there  ! 


TO  THE  PUEEST. 

THOU  art  within  thy  chamber  dim. 

The  slowly  waning  light 
On  darkness  verges  in  the  east. 

Beside^the  embers  bright 
Thou  sittest  long, — forgetful  half 

If  it  be  day  or  night. 

Before  thee  is  the  open  book 
Of  God's  revealed  word  ; 

Upon  it  rest  thy  clasped  hands. 
No  utterance  has  stirred 

The  silent  breathing  of  thy  lips, 
And  yet  thy  prayer  is  heard. 


TO    THE    PUREST.  77 

Thou  prayest  that  thy  life  may  be 

So  ordered,  that  its  end 
Will  find  thy  soul  at  peace  with  Heaven. 

No  earthly  wishes  blend 
With  holier  thoughts.  Untainted,  all 

Thy  prayers  to  God  ascend. 

As  Mary  turned  from  all  the  world, 

And  suffered  not  its  care 
To  come  between  her  path  and  heaven, — 

And  could  her  beauty  wear 
Unconscious  as  the  opening  flower  ; — 

So  thou,  than  whom  more  fair 

Are  none  in  all  this  glorious  earth, 

Canst  see  each  troubled  soul 
Around  thee,  strew  its  path  with  thorns ; — 

And,  with  a  sweet  control 
Of  all  thyself,  await  in  peace 

Until  the  golden  bowl 


78  POEMS. 

Is  broken  at  the  fount  of  life, — 

Until  the  silver  cord 
Is  loosed  between  thee  and  the  world. 

Thou  knowest  that  thy  Lord, 
To  whom  such  innocence  is  given, 

Will  make  thee  thy  reward. 


I  HAVE  OUTWATCHED. 

1  HAVE  outwatched  the  fires  of  life  ; 

They  die  upon  the  plain  ; 
And,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

The  stars  are  seen  again. 

Mine  were  the  beacon  lights  of  earth  ; 

To  ashes  they  have  turned  : 
Yet,  all  the  while,  unwatched  above, 

The  holy  stars  have  burned  ! 

Had  I  looked  to  their  changeless  light, 

I  had  not  gone  astray, 
Nor,  in  the  dreary  midnight,  stood 

Beside  the  ashes  gray  ! 


THY  KULE. 

THY  spirit  rules  within  my  breast, 
A  Queen  upon  the  throne, 

And  all  my  silent  thoughts  obey 
Thy  sovereignty  alone. 

Beloved,  wherefore  wilt  thou  not 
Eeceive  me  "as  thine  own  ! 

It  may  not  be  a  regal  sway. 

But  never  potentate 
To  nobler  uses  could  command 

The  government  of  state, 
Or  wield  with  more  authority 

A  willing  subject's  fate. 


THY    RULE.  81 

Oh  !  can  it  not  suffice  thy  mind 

To  have  such  sceptred  sway  ? 
Or  art  thou  not  content,  unless 

The  multitude  obey, 
And  to  thee,  on  a  gilded  throne, 

A  ceaseless  homage  pay  ? 

I  think  it  not.     Thy  angel  mind 

No  worldly  raiment  wears, 
Nor  seeks,  in  pomp  and  circumstance, 

Increase  of  daily  cares. 
Embroidered  only  on  thy  breast, 

A  Christian  cross  it  bears. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  the  throne  whereon 

So  long  thy  place  has  been  ; 
But  with  a  kinder  rule  wilt  sway 

My  heart,  oh  !  Virgin  Queen  ! 
How  desolate,  if  thou  wert  gone, 

Alas  !  were  all  within  ! 


MY  SOUL. 

MY  soul  for  starless  darkness  longs. 

The  night  leaves  memory  free, 
To  people  every  empty  heart 

With  shapes  that  may  not  be 
Discerned  in  light  of  common  day. 

The  grace  of  vanished  youth, — 
The  loveliness  of  other  days, 

Are  then  once  more  a  truth. 

A  truth  unto  remembrance,  though 

Upon  life's  desert  way. 
The   flowers   that    longest    bloomed    have 
known 

At  last  a  sure  decay. 


MY    SOUL.  83 

A  truth,  though  none  remain,  whose  love 

Gave  beauty  to  the  morn, 
And  though  we  stand  at  eve  alone, 

Forsaken  and  forlorn. 

Come,  night,  and  draw  thy  dusky  veil 

Across  the  arching  sky  ; 
I  weary  of  the  golden  lights, 

Which  on  the  meadows  lie. 
The  glory  of  the  earth  to  me 

Unreal  splendor  seems, 
Akin  to  that  magnificence 

Which  cheats  us  in  our  dreams. 


UNTO  THE  BKOKEN  HEART. 

THERE  is  no  beauty  in  the  earth 
Unto  the  broken  heart. 
The  song  of  mirth 
Is  sadder  than  the  dirge  ; 

And  art 

And  its  creations,  seem 
An  empty  dream. 

The  glory  of  the  morning  sky, — 

The  sun-lit  trees, — 
The  shaded  dells,  and  meadows  near 

To  Summer  seas, — 


UNTO  THE  BROKEN  HEART.        85 

The  chant  of  woodland  songs, — 
The  waterfall,— 
Are  wrongs 
Unto  the  eye  and  ear, 
For  they  recall 
The  lost  and  dead 
Who  from  our  earthly  paths  have  fled. 


THIS  APEIL  MOON. 

THIS  April  moon  will  tempt  thee  forth 

To  stand  beneath  the  sky  : 
No  gloomy  shadows  of  the  night 

Upon  the  meadows  lie. 
A  veil  of  beauty  robes  the  earth. 

The  distant  waters  are 
Unto  her  breast  a  silver  shield. 

Encrowned  by  the  star 
She  sleeps,  and  God  above 
Keeps  watch  with  his  eternal  love. 


THIS    APRIL    MOON.  87 

Thine  eyes  are  on  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Thy  silent  thoughts  outpour 
In  solitude  the  breath  of  prayer. 

If  life  can  e'er  restore 
The  grace,  which  unto  nature  clave, 

When  angels  sang  on  high 
The  beauty  of  the  new-born  world, 

Thy  spirit  draweth  nigh 

Unto  the  type,  created  when 

God  walked  among  our  fellow-men. 

I  cannot  hope  that  in  the  calm 

Of  thy  deep  thoughts,  there  came 
Kemembrance  of  my  love,  or  yet 

A  murmur  of  my  name. 
But  if  the  wandering  spirit  may 

Its  nearing  presence  tell, 
My  soul  has  whispered  to  thy  ear. 

I  trust  the  words  may  swell 


88  POEMS. 

The  current  of  thy  heart  above 
Its  shores,  and  deepen  it  to  love. 

May  angels  guard  thy  rest  to-night ! 

Thy  childlike  sleep  shall  seal 
Thy  vision  to  the  things  of  earth  ; 

But  slumber  shall  reveal 
The  land,  in  which  thy  spirit  dwells. 

I  may  not  enter  there  : 
And  yet  I  trust  thy  lips,  in  dreams, 

Will  breathe  an  earnest  prayer, 
That  in  this  world,  and  that  to  come, 
We  both  may  find  a  common  home. 


I  WATCH  ALONE. 

I  WATCH  alone  this  silent  night, — 

Alone,  and  yet 
A  thousand  shapes  are  gliding  near. 

The  dead  have  met 
The  living  in  the  shadowy  throng. 

Forgotten  years 
Upon  my  head  their  ashes  lay  ; 

Forgotten  tears 
Their  long-dried  channels  fill, 

And  flow  at  will. 

I  feel  that  I  this  phantom  host 

Could  drive  away, 
And  summon  to  my  presence  all 

The  bright  array 

5* 


90  POEMS. 

Which  Hope  can  marshal  in  her  train. 

But  well  I  know 
That  all,  around  me  gathered  now, 

Wore  long  ago 
The  beauty  of  the  earth. 

Behold  its  worth  ! 

A  little  while,  and  I  may  be 

Mourned  with  the  rest  : 
The  valley  clods  may  crumble  on 

My  pulseless  breast. 
A  shadow  of  a  bygone  time, 

My  name  may  be  ; 
And  thou,  perchance,  in  solitude 

Mine  image  see  ; — 
Recalling  then  the  years, 

I  trust  with  tears. 


WE  ARE  NOT  MASTERS. 

WE  are  not  masters  of  the  years  ; 

Each  Summer  hour, 
The  current  of  our  lives  shrinks  up, 

And  loses  power. 
The  full  fresh  tides  of  youthful  thought, 

That  channelled  deep 
Their  course  in  earlier,  happier  days, 

Shall  silent  sleep 
In  mantling  pools.     The  withered  tree 

Will  to  the  sun 
Of  Summer  show  its  bared  boughs  ; 

And,  standing  on 


92  POEMS. 

The  meadows  wide,  the  eye  shall  see 

The  harvest  field 
So  swept  by  time,  that  it  may  not 

To  gleaners  yield 
Aught  for  the  charities  of  life. 

The  fields  were  sown 
By  hands  forgotten. — The  harvest  was 

For  Death  alone. 


OH  !  PKOPHET  HEART. 

OH  !  prophet  heart !  from  early  days 

My  SOITOW  was  foretold 
By  thy  deep  utterance.     The  tide 

Of  human  woe  has  rolled 
Ceaseless  upon  the  shores  of  life. 

Sometimes  a  golden  sun 
Has  lit  the  waters  with  its  beams  ; 

But  yet  they  broke  upon 
The  shattered  years,  and  spared  them  not. 

In  sunshine  and  in  cloud. 
Each  fair  young  Hope  that  ventured  forth, 

Has  gone  unto  a  shroud. 


94  POEMS. 

Is  there  no  sign  of  calmer  seas  ! 

Thou  watchman  standing  far 
Above  the  mists  of  earth, — whose  brow 

Is  crowned  with  the  star 
That  shone  on  Bethlehem  long  ago, — 

Speak  to  the  waters  wild  ! 
Eemember  all  thy  sorrows,  Lord, 

When  thou  wert  here  a  child. 
Oh  !  prophet  heart  !  thy  mantle  dark 

Upon  his  altars  lay  ! 
God  stills  the  waters  in  their  wrath, 

Whene'er  his  children  pray  ! 


DREAMING. 

TO-NIGHT,  while  I  sit  dreaming  here, 
Perchance  thou  art  at  prayer  ; 

I  would  the  roaming  wind  to  me 
The  murmured  words  would  bear, 

That  I  might  know  that  thou  hadst  asked 
For  me  thy  Father's  care. 

The  world  had  laid  upon  my  heart, 

For  years,  an  iron  hand, 
And  closed  the  gate  from  whence  it  looked 

Unto  the  spirit-land, 
Until  I  thought  I  heard  thy  soul 

Beside  the  portal  stand. 


96  POEMS. 

In  that  calm  hour  it  opened  to 
A  glimpse  of  earth  and  sky. 

Which  shone  as  if  an  Eden  came 
Unto  the  dreaming  eye  ; 

And  my  rapt  soul  in  glory  walked 
A  brighter  world  on  high. 

I  sudden  woke  from  that  sweet  trance, 
And  round  me  looked  to  find 

The  angel  hand,  whose  touch  had  oped 
Such  vision  to  the  blind, 

And  brought  a  sunshine  not  of  earth 
Unto  my  darkened  mind. 

It  was  a  dream.     The  dark  around 
To  me  no  comfort  brought ; 

The  echo  of  a  passing  voice 
Lived  only  in  my  thought  ; 

For  some  sweet  strain  that  floated  by, 
My  prisoned  soul  had  caught. 


DREAMING.  97 

To-night,  while  I  sit  dreaming  here, 

I  know  thou  art  at  prayer ; 
But,  in  the  voiceless  wish  thy  soul 

Breathes  on  the  evening  air, 
The  heart  that  loves  thee  best  on  earth, 

Alas  !  has  little  share. 


THE  HISTORY. 

As  night  by  night,  in  other  years, 

I  lingered  by  thy  side, 
Methinks  I  might  have  known  my  heart 

Welled  out  a  fuller  tide, 
And  seen  a  freighted  hope  upon 

Its  tranquil  bosom  glide. 

The  waters  did  not  from  the  rock, 

As  in  a  moment,  flow. 
It  was  no  desert  miracle. 

They  gathered,  dropping  slow 
From  the  long  sealed  font,  as  if 

They  were  the  melting  snow. 


THE    HISTORY.  99 

Thine  eye  discerned  the  larger  stream. 

Although  thy  heart  was  free, 
And  neither  spoke,  yet  oft  thy  thought 

In  silence  turned  to  me. — 
The  rivulet  to  the  river  grew, 

Slow  wandering  to  the  sea. 

Upon  its  waves,  my  mortal  hopes 

Float  onward  to  the  deep. 
No  friendly  hands  the  courses  steer. — 

Thy  thoughts  in  silence  sleep, 
While  sorrow  spreads  the  canvas  torn, 

And  cares  the  watches  keep. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER. 

THE  voice  of  prayer  has  ceased  with  me. 

The  Holy  gates  above 
Are  closed  unto  the  heart  of  him, 

Who  made  a  human  love 
His  arbiter  for  all  the  years. 

Unto  that  love  was  given, 
Without  return,  the  worship  due 

To  God  alone  in  heaven. 

And  yet  a  love  so  deep  and  pure 

Deserved  a  better  end. 
I  do  not  at  my  fate  repine, 

For  sorrow  cannot  mend 


THE    VOICE    OF    PRAYER.  101 

The  broken  links  between  our  lives. 

My  refuge  is  in  pride  ; 
For  gentler  thoughts  were  trodden  down, 

And  in  thy  pathway  died. 

When  men  hereafter  name  my  name, 

As  one  to  feeling  dead, 
Remember  who  the  final  shaft 

Upon  its  errand  sped. 
If  manhood  be  an  early  grave 

Unto  my  trusting  soul, 
At  thy  deep  fountain  broken  was, 

For  me,  the  golden  bowl. 


OH  !  MORNING  STAR. 

WHY  art  thou  hidden  from  my  view, 

Oh  !  morning  star, 
That  on  Chaldean  sages  rose  ! 

Thy  glories  are 
Unseen  in  all  the  heavens  above  ! 

A  Prince  is  born 
Unto  the  nations  of  the  earth  ; 

The  creed  outworn 
Of  worldliness  is  past  and  dead : 

I  bear,  within 
My  full-stored  heart,  the  offering 

Of  what  has  been 


OH  !    MORNING    STAR.  103 

Most  precious  to  my  elder  life, — 

The  balm  of  love, 
Grown  pure  in  life's  un  withered  tree, — 

Yet  look  above, 
And  see  no  light  revealed  in  heaven  ! 

Oh  !  morning  star, 
By  watchful  sages  earliest  seen, 

Shining  afar, 
Why  falleth  not  thy  light  on  me  ! 

I  stand  among 
The  fields  of  earth,  nor  hear  the  sounds 

Of  angel  song, 
Ascending  to  the  breaking  dawn. 

The  morn  of  grace  is  gone  ! 


THE  COMING  SHADOW. 

THE  shadow  of  a  day 
That  soon  must  come,  upon  me  lies. 

'Tis  but  a  brief  delay 
Ere  thou  shalt  stand  with  drooping  eyes, 

And,  at  God's  altar,  say 
The  words  which  give  thy  life  away. 

Within  thy  heart  shall  be 
The  gladness  of  a  spirit  blest ; 

No  bitter  memory 
Shall  wander  nigh  thy  peaceful  breast, 


THE   COMING   SHADOW.  105 

And  happy  in  thy  fate, 
Unto  the  future  all  thy  thoughts  shall  turn. 

Before  the  golden  gate, 
Then  opening  wide,  shall  brightly  burn 

The  myriad  lamps  of  trust  and  love, 

Lit  by  a  glory  from  above. 

I  could  not  cloud  thy  joy, 
Nor  would  I,  if  the  power  were  mine. 

My  love  hath  no  alloy 
Of  baser  thought.  I  silent  stand, 

And  see  thee  wander  far 
Beyond  the  grasp  of  my  weak  hand. 

Thy  beauty,  as  a  star, 
Shall  rise  upon  another's  even, 

While  I  wait  in  the  night, 
And  see  no  glory  in  the  heaven. 

I  mourn  the  vanished  sight 
Of  that  fair  Hope,  which  led  me  on, 

And  know  it  is  for  ever  gone. 
6 


EEMEMBEANOES. 

MY  inward  lookings  only  bring 

Her  presence  back  to  view, 
Whom,  when  my  life  was  in  its  Spring, 

In  every  pulse  I  knew. 
How  fair  she  looked,  the  greenwood  shade, 

The  Summer  leaves  among, 
When,  by  the  breath  of  evening  swayed, 

Her  loosened  tresses  hung  ! 


REMEMBRANCES.  107 

I  did  not  dream  that  she  would  look 

To  other  life  than  mine, 
Though  she  was  as  the  tranquil  brook, 

And  I  the  stormy  brine. 
Now  wandering  in  the  hills  afar, 

Her  path  is  hid  from  me, 
Though  earth  and  sky  and  polar  star 

Therein  may  mirrored  be. 


THE  HAEVEST  OF  LIFE. 

THE  buds  and  blossoms  of  the  Spring 

More  beautiful  appear, 
Than  all  the  harvest  gathered  in 

The  Summer  of  the  year. 
But  they  who  pluck  the  fragrant  flower, 

And  slight  the  ripened  grain, 
Shall  mourn  among  the  empty  fields, 

In  Autumn's  sober  wane. 


THE    HARVEST    OF    LIFE.  109 

The  withered  leaves,  the  broken  stalk, 

The  blossoms,  dead  and  dry, 
Kecall  no  likeness  to  themselves 

Beneath  the  Summer  sky. 
And  he,  who  made  his  harvest  such, 

Can  only  mourn  in  vain  ; 
For  never  more  in  life  we  reap, 

When  Autumn's  on  the  wane. 


MY  SOUL  IS  DAKK. 

MY  soul  is  dark  :  I  cannot  see 
The  path  nay  feet  should  tread, 

But  hopeless  walk  the  open  road, 
The  broader  way  instead, 

Although  I  knew  the  sunless  land 
To  which  it  ever  led. 

Around  me  rise  the  mists  of  earth. 

I  grope  as  in  a  cloud. 
No  answer  comes  unto  my  heart, 

Whene'er  I  cry  aloud, 
And  every  shape  about  me  wears 

The  likeness  of  a  shroud. 


MY    SOUL    IS    DARK.  Ill 

I  silent  kneel  to  God  in  prayer, 

Alone,  at  dead  of  night, 
And  inly  ask  that  there  should  shine 

For  me  the  pillared  light, 
Whose  radiance  glimmered  in  the  van 

Of  Israel's  dreary  flight. 

But  all  the  dark  unbroken  is 

Unto  my  straining  eye  ; 
No  light  appears  to  break  the  gloom 

Of  the  overarching  sky. 
A  rayless  shadow  only  seems 

To  me  approaching  nigh. 

And  yet  I  know  an  angel  hand 

Is  near  me  on  my  way, 
Whose  lightest  touch  my  listening  heart 

Would  hasten  to  obey  ; 
And  it  could  lead  me  through  the  cloud 

Unto  the  open  day. 


112  POEMS. 

An  angel  sent,  I  thought  of  Heaven, 

To  be  my  spirit  guide, 
To  whom  I  have  reached  out  my  arms, 

And  called  on  every  side  ; 
And  yet,  in  all  my  sorrow,  she 

Has  not  to  me  replied. 

Perchance  she  stands  beneath  the  sky, 

Herself  in  silent  prayer, 
Content  with  Nature,  and  its  wealth 

Of  Earth,  and  light,  and  air, — 
Forgetful  of  a  parting  soul, 

While  she  is  dreaming  there. 

So  let  her  dream. — The  time  may  come, 

When  she,  awakened  late, 
Will  feel  that  God  appointed  her 

To  influence  my  fate  ; 
Although,  perchance,  His  providence 

Would  not  the  years  await. 


MY    SOUL   IS    DARK.  113 

The  years  !  who  can  foretell  the  end  ! 

In  all  the  gloom  I  stand, 
And  hear  the  glass  of  time  drop  down 

The  grains  of  golden  sand. 
And  know  not  if  I  ever  may 

Another  year  command  ! 

Oh  !  God,  why  came  this  messenger 

To  me  in  darkness  near, 
Unless  she  whisper  words  of  hope 

Unto  my  listening  ear  ; 
And,  with  a  holy  counsel,  seek 

My  fainting  heart  to  cheer  ! 


KELIGION. 

To  me;  Keligion,  thou  art  not 
In  dark,  ascetic  habit  clad. 
I  hail  thee  as  a  spirit  glad. 

Thou  hast  transformed  the  lot 
Of  martyrs,  to  a  state 

More  glorious  than  a  prince's  realra. 
The  darkest  fate 

That  can  our  human  life  overwhelm, 


RELIGION.  115 

Beneath  thine  eye 
Will  brighten,  till  the  upper  sky 

Shows  not  a  cloud. 

The  shroud, 
When  touched  by  thee  is  glorified, 

And  death  defied. 
The  grave  itself  becomes  a  crystal  gate, 

Where  we  shall  wait 
In  silent  longing,  till  the  bar 

Is  lifted  high  ; 
And  then,  crowned  by  the  Eastern  star, 

Enter  the  sky. 


TO  MY  SOUL. 

WHY  art  thou  vexed,  my  soul, 
With  ceaseless  lust  of  fame  ? 

Nor  honor,  nor  the  pride 
Of  an  undying  name, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  loud  acclaim, 
Should  be  thy  aim. 

Look  on  the  churchyard,  and 
Among  the  nameless  dead, 

Behold  the  monument 

Above  the  great  man's  head. 

His  epitaph  unread, 
And  praise  unsaid. 


TO   MY   SOUL.  117 

Better  the  simple  mound, 
With  grasses  wild  o'ergrown, 

Than  sculptured  bust,  or  urn 
Of  monumental  stone, 

If,  to  thy  God  alone, 
Thy  worth  was  known. 


THE  DEAD. 

THE  ploughshare  may  thy  hillock  turn, 

The  corn  about  it  grow, 
The  rustic  bind  the  golden  sheaf 

Above  thee  lying  low. 

The  sun  may  glimmer  on  thy  bones, 

And  they  neglected  lie, 
And  bleach  in  every  Wintry  wind, 

And  every  Summer  sky. 

It  is  as  well  for  thee  that  such 
Should  be  thy  body's  doom, 

As  if  it  lay  in  sculptured  vault, 
In  deep  cathedral  gloom. 


SOLITARY  PEAYEE. 

HERE,  in  this  solemn  depth  of  wood, 

Away  from  human  eyes, 
My  heart  an  altar  makes. 
No  worldly  thoughts  intrude. 
Above  me  are  the  skies. 
The  breath  of  Summer  wakes 
Among  the  leaves  a  mournful  air, 
Like  to  the  cadence  of  a  prayer. 


120  POEMS. 

I  know  an  early  promise  came, 
That  God  would  be 
Where  two  or  three 
Were  gathered  in  His  name. 
But,  as  the  Saviour  went  apart 

To  solitary  prayer, 
And  poured  his  troubled  spirit  out 

Unto  the  midnight  air, 
When  not  a  human  eye  could  see 

His  agony, — 

So  would  I,  in  this  lonely  place, 
Come  nearer  to  my  Father's  face. 


PKAYEK. 

BEND  beneath  thy  sorrow  deep, 
Bend, — but  do  not  break  ; 

Unto  Hope's  reviving  light 

Thy  burdened  heart  shall  wake. 

God  does  not  on  our  spirits  lay 
More  than  we  should  bear, 

But  looks  to  see  us  ask  His  help 
In  unceasing  prayer. 


122  POEMS. 

Thou  shalt  not  need  to  wait  on  Him 
As  courtiers  wait  on  kings, 

Until  an  answer,  long  deferred, 
A  slender  solace  brings. 

Thy  lonely  chamber  is  a  court, 
Whence  thou  canst  see  His  face. 

The  sovereign  Lord  of  all  the  world 
Is  near  in  every  place. 


THE  PLOUGHSHAKE. 

THE  ploughshare  driveth  o'er  the  fieldr 

The  single  flower 
That  upward  springs  to  greet  the  sun, 

Beholds  the  hour 
Of  its  untimely  death  at  hand. 

What  though  the  grain, 
In  some  far  distant  Summer,  yield 

Eeturn  upon 
The  broader  stretch  of  broken  land  ! 

I  shall  repine 
That  the  fair  flower  no  more  is  mine  ! 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

THE  Earth  is  dead.     Beneath  the  snow 
It  lieth  in  a  winding  sheet ; 

And  all  who  look  upon  its  face, 
Go  and  return  with  muffled  feet. 

The  sad  night-wind  its  requiem  sings  ; 

The  Winter  robes  it  for  the  tomb  ; 
And  silent  stars  bum  funeral  lights 

Above  it,  in  the  deepening  gloom. 


I  KNOW  AT  LAST. 

I  KNOW  at  last  that  thou  art  not 
Appointed  for  my  guide  ; 

Thy  gentle  heart  will  never  more 
To  mine  seem  close  allied. 

I  look  upon  thy  love,  and  feel 
It  is  a  falling  tide. 

It  was  a  dream  too  full  of  joy. 

To  last  until  the  day 
Its  glory  in  the  darkness  came> — 

In  darkness  passed  away, 
And  left  me,  sleepless,  to  await 

The  morning  cold  and  gray. 


126  POEMS. 

I  would  the  common  day  were  near, 
And  that  the  strife  and  din 

Of  struggling  men  were  heard  alone 
My  weary  heart  within, 

That  I  might  mingle  with  the  crowd, 
Forgetting  what  has  been. 

Why  seemed  the  arching  heaven  above 

To  open  unto  me, 
And  holy  angels  to  descend, 

If  in  the  dawn  I  see 
No  sign  of  promise,  and  around 

The  desert  only  be  ! 

The  desert,  and  its  glittering  sand, 
Spread  out  beneath  the  sky, — 

Unbroken  by  the  golden  palm, — 
No  well  of  water  nigh, — 

Where,  when  the  weary  traveller  halts, 
He  only  halts  to  die  ! 


TO  MY  SOUL. 

WHEREFORE  art  thou  sad,  my  soul, 
And  burdened  by  thy  care  ? 

This  is  thy  appointed  grief, — 
The  burden  thou  must  bear. 

The  narrow  pathway  to  thy  God 
Is  margined  by  the  thorn. 

The  heart  is  lifted  up  to  Heaven, 
From  a  world  forlorn. 


128  POEMS. 

Mourn  not  that  His  will  has  hushed 
The  voices  heard  in  youth. 

Their  well  loved  music  filled  thy  ears. 
And  closed  thy  heart  to  truth. 

Now,  in  the  dark  and  silent  night. 
The  angels  round  thee  stand, 

And  long  loved  faces  seem  to  look 
From  out  the  spirit  land. 

Let  not  the  green  grass  on  the  earth 
Thy  hope  with  fear  affright  ; 

It  is  the  curtain  which  conceals 
An  Eden  from  thy  sight. 


IT  IS  NOT  LIFE. 

IT  is  not  life  to  stand  alone, 

Upon  this  wide-spread  earth, 
Beside  an  altar  overthrown. — 

The  privilege  is  worth 
No  more,  than,  to  the  broken  stone, 

Eemembrance  that  it  bore 
Once  the  holiest  sacrifice  ; 

Though  never,  never  more 
Shall  Priest,  or  Priestess,  minister 

Before  the  empty  shrine. 
The  sacred  chalice  shattered  is, 

And  wasted  is  the  wine. 

7 


130  TOEMS. 

The  desert  sands  untrodden  lie. 

What;  though  in  elder  days, 
There  rose,  to  a  serener  sky. 

The  choral  song  of  praise  ! 
The  oracles  of  life  are  dumb. 

With  saddest  accent  plead, 
No  voice  shall  from  the  temple  come 

To  answer  to  thy  need. 
It  is  not  life  to  stand  alone, 
Beside  thy  altar's  broken  stone. 


THE  TIDE  OF  ANGER. 

THE  tide  of  anger  runs  not  long  in  me. 

Its  force,  constrained,  is  spent 
Upon  the  barriers  of  a  soul, 

In  trials  more  content 
To  bear  misfortune,  than  to  chide. 

The  utterance  of  grief, 
Rising  in  wild  reproach,  to  me 

Affordetli  not  relief. 


132  POEMS. 

I  shall  not  break  our  slender  bonds, 

Because  they  will  not  bear 
The  burden  of  a  common  life. 

We  cannot  always  share 
With  whom  we  will  our  mortal  fate. 

An  unseen  spirit  sways 
Our  destiny  in  this  :  and  he  is  wise, 

Who  silently  obeys. 

Unto  such  sad  decree  my  soul  submits,- 

Submits  with  bitter  tears, — 
For  I  behold  a  lonely  path, 

On  which  the  spectre  years 
Stand,  joyless,  waiting  till  I  pass  ; 

With  crowns  of  withered  flowers 
In  mockery  set  upon  the  glass, 

With  which  they  count  the  hours. 

I  fear  to  loose  my  hand  from  thine. 
While  yet  it  may  remain, 


THE   TIDE   OF    ANGER.  133 

An  Eastern  star  seems  shining  on 

The  rock-bound  desert  plain. 
Oh  !  heavenly  Father  !  wherefore  was 

Withheld  from  me  such  guide, 
With  whom  my  soul  was  well  content 

To  walk  the  desert  wide  ! 


FAEEWELL. 

FAREWELL, — we  stand  upon  the  verge 

Of  that  last  hour 
Which  ends  the  journey  of  the  past. 

I  have  not  power 
To  stay  the  purpose  of  thy  heart. 

Thy  fixed  will 
Unto  my  saddest  utterance  speaks, — 

Peace  and  be  still. 


FAREWELL.  135 

Peace  lest  the  sweetness  of  thy  calm 

Should  broken  be. 
Peace  lest  the  whisper  of  the  world 

Approach  to  thee. 
Thou  wishest  that  my  love  should  die, 

And  make  no  sign. 
A  silent  unseen  martyrdom, 

Thou  wouldst  have  mine. 

Thou  askest  of  me  to  forget, — 

Forget,  and  be 
A  gay  companion  on  the  path 

Of  life  to  thee, 
Cheering  thy  spirit  with  my  mirth. 

Oh  !  would  that  I 
Could  tutor  thus  my  scattered  hopes, 

Or  from  thee  fly. 

Could  fly,  and  carry  not  the  links, 
Left  broken  in 


136  POEMS. 

My  wounded  heart,  and  think  no  more 

Of  what  has  been. 
But  cankering  there  shall  they  remain.! 

Remain  to  tell 
The  story  known  unto  my  life, 

Alas  !    too  well. 

Unconsciously  hast  thou  filled  up 

Unto  the  brim, 
With  bitterness,  life's  single  cup  ; 

The  vision  dim 
Of  gladness,  with  unsparing  hand, 

Hast  driven  far : 
And  clouded,  in  the  heaven  of  life, 

The  single  star. 


THE  SABBATH  MOKN. 

THE  Sabbath  morn  should  be 
The  halting  station  on  the  road  of  life, 

Where  to  our  armor  we 
May  look,  and  test  it  for  the  morrow's  strife. 

The  battle  of  the  world 
Should  not  encroach  upon  this  time  of  rest : 

With  all  our  standards  furled, 
We  should  remove  the  corslet  from  the  breast. 

And  standing  silent  then, 
Beneath  the  cope  of  the  overhanging  sky, 

Eemember  that  all  men, — 
The  victors  and  the  vanquished, — all  must  die. 
7* 


138  POEMS. 

The  trophies,  which  we  gain 
In  the  wild  struggle, — fighting  hand  to  hand, — 

Shall  not  our  souls  maintain, 
When  entering  naked  in  the  spirit  land. 

For  soldiers  of  the  cross 
We  are  not ;  but  unto  that  host  belong, 

Whose  victory  is  loss, — 
Enlisted  ever  on  the  side  of  wrong. 

While,  therefore,  on  the  way 
We  halt  to  try  upon  the  Sabbath  morn 

Our  armor  for  the  fray, 
Let  us  consider  why  the  helm  is  worn. 

Better  the  olive  leaf 
Should,  with  the  myrtle,  deck  thy  humble  brow, 

Than  be  an  armed  chief 
Among  the  hosts  that  look  upon  thee  now. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 

THE  child,  beside  his  mother's  knee, 

Knows  little  of  the  open  sea. 

In  a  secluded  vale  he  dwells, 

Where  golden  sands,  and  smooth-lipped  shells 

Amuse  his  life  ; 

Unconscious  that  the  whirlwinds  sweep 
The  surface  of  the  outer  deep, 

With  never-ending  strife. 

He  sees,  perchance, 
Some  bark  upon  the  shore, 
Which  sailed  of  late 
The  waters  o'er. 


140  POEMS. 

The  broken  spars,  the  rifted  deck, 
The  silence  of  the  wave-washed  wreck, 

Impress  his  heart ; 
But,  in  the  sunshine  on  the  sea, 
And  Summer  breezes  blowing  free, 

Such  thoughts  depart. 

The  sturdy  oak  is  growing  near, 

The  ash  within  the  forest  stands, 
And  yet  he  builds  an  osier  bark, 
Secured  with  silken  bands. 
The  pennants  gay 
Stream  from  the  mast, 
As  on  the  outward  tide  he  floats, 
Keceding  fast. 

Oh  !  mother,  who  hast  known 

The  terrors  of  the  sea, 
In  all  the  watches  of  the  night 

How  thinks  thy  son  of  thee, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    LIFE.  141 

Who,  smiling  stood  upon  the  strand, 
And  sent  him  helpless  from  the  land. 

What  wonder,  when  a  time 

Of  looking  out  is  past, 
Some  sad  memorial  of  his  fate 
Upon  the  shore  is  cast ! — 
And  that  he, 
Gone  down  at  sea, 
Is  lost  to  earth  and  all  its  memory  ! 


EAKLY  DEATH, 

MOURN  not  sweet  soul,  that  death  appeared 

Unto  thee  while  the  sky 
Yet  brightened  to  the  perfect  noon. 

It  seemeth  hard  to  die. 
When  earth  is  opening  wide  the  gate 

Unto  the  golden  light, 
And  Summer  gladness  of  the  young. 

And  yet  such  early  flight 
Is  sweeter,  than  when  we  remain 

To  see  the  sunshine  wane, 
And  darkness  gather  on  the  earth  ; — 


EARLY   DEATH.  143 

The  night,  wherein  we  are 

Unguided  by  a  star  ! 
Mourn  not  sweet  soul  that  death  appeared 

Unto  thee,  ere  the  day 
Had  lost  its  gladness, — while  the  flowers 

Knew  not  as  yet  decay. 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

A  LITTLE  while,  and  we  may  meet ; 

And  that  one  hour 
Be  unto  all  the  growing  time, 

As  the  fair  flower 
Unto  the  green  and  leafy  stem, — 

A  crowning  diadem. 

A  little  while,  and  we  may  meet ; 

And  that  one  hour 
Be  unto  all  the  passed  time, 

As  the  dead  flower 
Unto  the  dry  and  leafless  stem, — 

A  broken  diadem. 


IF  HOLY  ANGELS. 

IF  holy  angels  spread  their  wings 

Around  on  every  side, 
And  minister  to  human  life, 

Why  wanders,  far  and  wide 
From  heavenly  paths  my  erring  soul ! 

It  stands  with  listening  ear, — 
Lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  the  world, — 

For  some  sweet  whisper  near, 


146  POEMS. 

Which  shall  direct  its  way  aright  ;- 

But  none,  alas  !  is  heard. 
I  know  such  spirit  wandered  by, 

For  all  the  silence  stirred 
To  music,  as  I  breathless  stood. 

But  to  my  earnest  prayer 
No  answer  came. — The  echo  died 

Upon  the  desert  bare. 


IT  IS  A  YEAR 

YES  !  it  is  a  year, 
Since,  in  my  heart,  first  kindled  were 

The  lights  of  Hope  and  Love. 
The  passing  Time  has  tried  thy  soul. 

Thou  canst  not  move 
The  golden  hinges  from  their  rest. 
I  stand  without  thy  closed  breast, — 
The  gates  will  never  open  roll. 


148  POEMS. 

Yes  !  it  is  a  year. 

And  brief  to  thee  such  season  seems, 
For  thou  art  nursed  in  Summer  dreams, 

And  days  appear 
As  moments  to  thy  sleeping  soul. 
To  thee  my  love  in  visions  came, — 

From  thee  in  visions  went, — 
And  other  dreams  thy  mind  control. 

As  one  in  water  writes  a  name, 
While  cloudless  skies  are  bent 

Above, — thy  heart  recorded  mine. 
'Twas  writ  upon  a  Summer's  day, 
And  in  the  sunlight  passed  away. 

Unruffled  now  the  waters  shine. 

Yes,  it  is  a  year  ! 
To  me  a  time  of  weary  thought. 
The  present  from  the  future  brought 
No  charm  against  the  sorrow  near. 


IT    IS    A    YEAR.  149 

In  silent  toil 
My  life  has  burned  its  waning  oil, 

And  other  lights  are  gone  ! 
How  slowly  have  the  lingering  days 

Swept  by  in  laggard  flight ! 
How  cheerlessly  the  evening  rays 
Are  yielding  to  the  night  1 
I  wonder,  looking  on 
The  way  I  came,  that  human  eyes 

Could  blinded  thus  remain. 
But  what  is  wisdom  worth,  when  Time 
Can  come  no  more  again  ! 

Yes,  it  is  a  year  ! 
A  year,  that  hath  its  Spring-time  known, — 

Its  sweet  and  flowering  May, — 
Its  silent  Summer, — and  at  last 

Its  Autumn  day  ; 
And,  in  the  Winter  now,  its  life 

Has  passed  away. 


THY  LIFE. 

EARTH  has  no  fountain  in  her  breast 

To  match  the  hidden  well, 
From  which  the  waters  of  thy  life 

In  stainless  beauty  swell. 
Sweet  flowing  from  thy  inner  heart, 

As  from  a  crystal  cell. 

But  yet  its  calm  and  silvery  course 

Would  vanish  like  a  dream, 
If  through  its  quiet  channel  swept 

That  dark  and  turbid  stream, 
Upon  whose  wreck-strewn  surface,  sleeps 

No  golden  Summer  beam. 


THY    LIFE.  151 

Thy  gentler  course  shall  softly  glide 

The  purple  hills  among, 
As  pure  as  when  the  waters  first 

To  light  and  motion  sprung, 
Kevealing  ever  in  their  depth 

The  sky  above  thee  hung. 


I  AM  NOT  FBEE. 

I  AM  not  free  from  taint  of  wrong. 

Nay,  mingling  with  the  flow 
Of  purest  thought,  are  elements, 

Which,  to  my  vision,  show 
The  grosser  soil  of  human  life. 

Thus  will  the  current  glide, 
Until  the  waters  reach  the  sea; 

Unless  the  fuller  tide 
Within  some  peaceful  valley  swim, 

And,  slowlier  moving,  be 
By  its  own  strength  and  nature's  calm 

Eestored  to  purity. 


I    AM    NOT    FREE.  153 

Thy  thoughts  would  be  the  stately  hills 

Beside  its  tranquil  way  ; 
Thy  love  would,  on  its  silent  depths, 

Shine  like  a  starry  ray  ; 
And  by  its  verge  the  flowerets  spring. 

Oh  !  wherefore  should  it  be 
For  ever  wandering  through  the  sands, 

To  mingle  with  the  sea  ! 
Better  the  fountain  at  its  source 

In  other  years  had  dried, 
Than  that  the  desert  thus  should  be 

Swept  by  its  fuller  tide  ! 


OH  !  THEE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  ! 

SAD  tree  of  knowledge  !  from  thy  bough, 

In  Summers  gone, 
The  golden  fruit  in  beauty  hung. 

I  gazed  upon 
Its  sweetness  in  the  night  and  morn. 

My  soul  was  won 
To  touch  it  by  the  angel  near. 

Yet,  though  to  me, 
It  opened  holier  views  of  life. 

Mine  eye  must  see 
The  radiant  gates  of  Eden  closed, 

Eternally. 


TO  HOME  RETURNED. 

THOU  art  to  us  returned  again. 

To  me  it  seems 
As  if  in  all  thy  absence  I 

Had  walked  in  dreams  ; 
For  day  was  shorn  of  golden  light, 

And  all  the  hours, 
Slowly  and  sad,  went  wandering  by. 

No  crowning  flowers 
The  hand  of  Spring  upon  them  cast. 

Cowled  were  they 
As  mourners,  who  unto  a  grave 

Bore  Time  away. 


156  POEMS. 

Yet  now  that  we  can  meet  once  more, — 

In  happiness, — 
True  children  of  the  Summer  light. 

They  onward  press, 
Singing  sweet  carols  in  their  glee. 

From  morn  till  eve 
They  fill  my  heart  with  silent  joy, 

And  chaplets  weave 
From  such  sweet  growths  as  Hope  will  bring. 

Yet,  who  can  say, 
If  these  will  cheer  my  heart  in  all 

The  Summer  day  ! 


I  HAVE  NOT  SEEN  THEE. 

I  HAVE  not  seen  thee,  yet  I  know 
That  thou  art  near  : 

Thy  presence  as  the  sunshine  comes 
Upon  the  year, 

That  else,  in  hues  of  sadness  would 
To  me  appear. 

I  have  watched  for  thee,  as  we  look 

In  early  Spring 
To  see  the  sweet  bird  on  the  bough 

Its  carol  sing, 
While  field  and  greening  tree  around 

Are  blossoming. 


158  POEMS. 

To  me,  thou  as  the  Spring-time  art. 

Thy  thoughts  are  showers 
That,  falling  on  my  barren  heart, 

Put  forth  in  flowers, 
Until  a  radiant  grace  has  filled 

The  happy  hours. 

I  have  not  seen  thee,  yet  I  feel 

That  thou  art  near, 
And  brightest  Summer  lends  its  charm 

Unto  the  year. 
To  me,  of  Hope  the  coronal 

Thou  dost  appear. 


UNMOVED  WE  SEE. 

UNMOVED,  we  see  the  floweret  die. 

Before  its  open  leaves 
Have  caught  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

Unmoved,  in  Summer  eves, 
We  watch  the  clouds  in  darkness  hide 

The  myriad  stars,  which  burn 
Their  heavenly  watch-fires  far  and  wide. 

The  floweret  shall  return 
In  beauty  to  another  Spring  ; 

The  clouds,  on  other  nights, 
Will  shadow  not  with  dusky  wing 

God's  glorious  beacon  lights. 


160  POEMS. 

But,  not  unmoved,  we  see  decay 

The  growth,  the  spirit  bears 
Before  our  manhood  fades  away. 

Among  the  tangled  cares 
Of  life,  the  single  flower  is  born. 

Alas  !  the  barren  earth 
In  its  creation  is  outworn  ; 

And  all  the  after  worth 
Of  Time,  is  counted  by  a  hand 

That  toils  in  endless  pain, 
But  cannot,  to  the  barren  land, 

Bring  back  its  growth  again. 

Oh  !  not  unmoved  the  heart  remains 
When  we  in  darkness  are. 

One  single  night,  upon  the  plains 
Of  earth,  we  watch  the  star, 

Which  is  in  seeming  promise  sent. 
If  clouds  obscure  its  ray 


UNMOVED   WE    SEE.  161 

In  that  brief  time,  our  watch  is  spent. 

For  the  eternal  day 
Which  cometh  after,  will  not  wane 

Unto  another  night. 
The  star,  beheld  from  earth,  again 

Will  never  meet  our  sight. 


THE  HEAET  IS  SELFISH. 

THE  heart  is  selfish  in  its  love  ; 

It  brooks  no  presence  near 
The  throne  on  which  it  fain  would  rule, 

And,  with  unquiet  ear. 
Harks  to  a  stranger's  whispered  name. 

What  wonder  is  it  then. 
If  a  deep  sadness  fills  its  realm, 

Whene'er  we  see  again, 
Returning  to  assert  its  sway, 
Some  impulse  of  an  earlier  day  ! 


THE    HEART    IS    SELFISH.  163 

I  know  that  I  ungently  deal 

With  thee  in  all  my  life  ; 
And  yet,  God  knows,  my  nature  hath 

Maintained  an  earnest  strife 
Against  the  impulse  of  its  love. 

And  that  I  love  thee;  thou 
Wilt  know  before  the  time  has  cast 

One  shadow  on  thy  brow. 
One  shadow  !  will  that  shadow  be 
A  tribute  to  my  memory  ! 

Alas  !  for  him,  whose  love  lay  hid, — 

As,  in  the  Wintry  snow, 
The  floweret  sleepeth  till  the  Spring  ! 

If  some  untimely  glow 
Melt  the  white  cerements  of  its  bloom, 

The  slender  stalk  shall  rise 
And  blossom  in  the  sunshine,  which 

A  moment  fills  the  skies. 


164  POEMS. 

Shall  blossom,  but  its  opening  breath 
Assures  the  floweret's  early  death. 

Mine  is  no  thought  of  covert  blame, — 

No  murmur  of  despair. 
A  silent  blessing  greets  thy  name, — 

Thy  name  is  all  my  prayer. 
To  me,  thou  art  the  goal  of  life  ; 

To  me,  its  only  prize. 
I  shall  not  win  thee.     Can  I  stand 

And  see,  with  tearless  eyes, 
Another  pass  me  in  the  race, 
On  whom  is  turned  thy  thoughtful  face  ? 

There  is  no  wisdom  in  this  cry 
Of  pain,  at  midnight  hours. 

When  once  the  sudden  frost  has  touched 
The  earth's  untimely  flowers, 

What  sorrow  will  their  bloom  restore  ! 
But  why  bewail  the  dead, 


THE    HEART   IS   SELFISH.  165 

Who  long  have  dwelt  within  our  hearts, 

If  we  no  tears  shall  shed 
O'er  vanished  hopes,  whose  promise  brought 
God's  Eden  home  unto  our  thought ! 


UPON  THE  THBESHOLD. 

UPON  the  threshold  of  my  life 

A  glorious  vision  stands  ; 
It  pauses  ere  it  wanders  forth. 

And  vainly  clasps  its  hands. 
In  sorrow  clasps  them,  as  it  goes. 

It  goes  to  come  no  more, 
Unless  its  memory  haunt  my  soul 

Upon  death's  silent  shore. 


UPON    THE    THRESHOLD.  167 

A  glorious  vision,  born  to  me 

When  life  was  in  its  prime, 
And  yet  reviving  all  the  grace 

Which  blessed  an  earlier  time  ! 
Within  my  rugged  heart  it  grew, 

Perchance  a  guest  unmeet, 
Though  flowerets,  in  that  lonely  place, 

Sprang  up  beneath  its  feet. 

I  know  not  why,  but  all  is  changed. 

A  glorious  vision  stands 
Upon  the  threshold  of  my  life, 

And  vainly  clasps  its  hands. 
In  sorrow  clasps  them,  as  it  goes  ; 

For  it  will  come  no  more, 
Although  its  memory  haunt  my  soul 

Upon  death's  silent  shore. 


I  STOOD  ALONE. 

I  STOOD  alone,  within  the  night, 

And  watched  the  taper's  beam 
In  thy  near  chamber  dimly  burn. 

Alone,  and  yet  a  dream 
Came  wandering  to  me  in  the  gloom. 

I  saw  a  thoughtful  face, 
With  eyes  intent  upon  the  air, 

Watch  in  that  silent  place, 
As  if  old  memories  came  and  went, 

Beheld  bv  it  alone. 


I   STOOD    ALONE.  169 

Sometimes  the  light  of  happy  smiles 

Upon  her  brow  was  thrown, 
As  if  the  wayward  phantoms  breathed 

The  songs  of  earlier  years, — 
The  songs,  Youth  sings  unto  the  soul, 

While  yet  we  know  not  tears  ! 

Then  would  the  fleeting  brightness  fade. 

Such  music  passed  away, 
And,  to  her  heart,  a  sadder  voice, 

Sang  of  a  later  day, — 
A  day  that  cometh  to  us  all, — 

When  sorrow  standeth  by, 
Uncrowning  all  the  golden  hours, 

As  over  us  they  fly  ! 

A  sweeter  calm  to  her  returned, 

And,  in  the  deeper  night, 
I  saw,  in  her  uplifted  eyes, 

The  glory  of  a  light, 


1 70  POEMS. 

That  cometh  not  from  sun,  or  star. 

Before  the  voice  of  prayer, 
The  thronging  phantoms  fled  away, 

And  left,  upon  the  air, 
No  echo  of  their  changing  lay. 

Peace  had  again  returned 
Unto  her  soul ;  and,  in  its  depths, 

God's  altar  only  burned. 


IN  VAIN. 

I  RAISE  unquiet  eyes  to  heaven, 

But  dark  its  glories  are  ; 
In  all  the  gloom  of  night  shines  forth 

No  solitary  star. 
The  faint  and  flickering  lights  of  earth 

Gleam  in  the  valley  far. 

i 

Each  moment,  as  my  steps  ascend, 
The  path  more  barren  grows  ; 

The  distant  laurels  cheer  me  not, 
I  miss  the  valley  rose  : 

No  floweret  blooms  upon  the  edge 
Of  these  unkindly  snows. 


172  POEMS. 

All  !  had  I  dwelt  in  lowlier  thoughts, 
A  happier  life  were  mine  ! 

Faith  had  relit  her  holy  fire 
In  the  deserted  shrine. 

And  bade  me,  to  a  calmer  thought, 
My  purposes  resign. 


THE  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  envelopes  earth  and  sky. 

This  dark  and  dreary  day 
Were  emblem  fit  of  life  to  me, 

But  that  to-morrow  may 
The  glory  to  the  sky  restore, 

And  to  the  earth  its  grace, 
While  my  sad  soul  no  light  discerns 

Within  its  darkened  place. 


174  POEMS. 

Fate  has  its  sharpest  arrows  sent. 

The  bulwark  of  my  pride. 
Cast  down  in  an  unequal  strife, 

Is  shattered  far  and  wide, 
And  in  the  breach  I  silent  stand. 

Yet  were  my  courage  high, 
But  that  I  see  it  matters  not 

If  1  should  fight,  or  fly. 

Oh  !  fatal  hour,  when  first  to  me 

At  morn  thy  beauty  came  ! 
Oh  !  fatal  hour,  when  first  I  dwelt 

In  thought  upon  thy  name  ! 
Oh  !  yet  more  fatal  time  than  all, 

When,  in  a  year  gone  by, 
That  love  was  born,  which  in  thy  ear 

Breathed  out  its  earliest  cry. 

To  thee,  that  night,  my  inmost  soul 
Was  opened  as  to  God  ; 


THE    CLOUD.  175 

With  thee,  that  night,  in  happiness, 

The  paths  of  earth  I  trod. 
So  near  me  came  thy  glorious  love. 

That,  in  its  fervent  breath, 
My  heart  leaped  up  to  greet  its  life, 

And  dreamed  not  of  its  death. 

Yet  even  then  a  memory 

Was  echoing  in  thy  heart  ! 
Thy  steps  drew  near  me  only  that 

They  might  from  me  depart ! 
They  leave  me  on  the  fields  of  life 

Where  I  its  toils  began  ! 
They  leave  me,  if  I  know  my  doom, 

On  earth  a  hopeless  man  ! 

The  voice  of  sorrow  has  not  strength 

To  reach  the  happier  ear  : 
Thy  heart,  in  peace,  the  bitterest  cry 

My  lips  can  breathe,  would  hear. 


176  POEMS. 

While  I  in  thy  calm  presence  stood, 
Thou  couldst  foresee  the  day 

Thy  maiden  hand,  in  other  troth 
Would  give  thy  love  away. 

What  matter  when  these  years  shall  end  ! 

Perchance  it  is  a  crime, 
To  see  but  sorrow  in  the  space 

Of  God's  appointed  time, 
And  fold  our  hands  in  dull  despair. 

But  if  the  end  shall  be 
The  severance  of  thy  lot  from  mine, 

No  joy  is  left  for  me. 

The  years  have  left  but  one  desire. 

When  it  shall  live  in  vain, 
I  care  not  if  the  lamp  of  life 

To  sudden  darkness  wane. 


THE    CLOUD.  177 

If  we  shall  part, — the  bitterest  chance 

That  e'er  my  life  beset, 
Were  blessing  to  the  woe,  which  came 

Because  our  pathways  met. 


THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

How  many  lonely  eves  have  I 

Watched  in  this  silent  place, 
And,  through  the  darkness,  dimly  seen 

That  well  remembered  face, 
Whose  lineaments  are  graven  on 

The  tablets  of  my  heart. 
Oh  !  memory,  to  the  happy  thou 

A  sweet  enchantress  art, 
Kestoring  to  the  years  their  bloom, — 

Unto  the  past  its  grace, — 
And  bringing  sunshine  back  again 

Unto  the  darkened  place. 


THE   WATCHES    OF    THE    NIGHT.  179 

But  there  are  hearts,  upon  whose  May 

Thick  fell  the  whirling  snow  ; 
And,  in  the  early  Autumn,  such 

Forget  the  Summer's  glow, 
And  sorrow  for  their  withered  Spring. 

They  feel  that  manhood's  prime 
Was  saddened  by  the  blight,  which  came 

Upon  an  earlier  time. 

Alas  !  it  is  too  surely  true 

That,  by  the  hand  of  fate, 
The  key  note  of  our  lives  is  struck, 

While  yet  our  souls  await 
The  opening  of  the  iron  doors 

Upon  the  road  of  life. 
The  few  to  gentlest  music  move, 

The  many  hear  the  strife 
Their  souls  must  make  with  sorrow,  in 

The  low  discordant  cry, 


180  POEMS. 

Wrung  from  their  trembling  heart-strings, 
while 

To  childhood  they  are  nigh, 
A  pause  there  may  be  in  such  strain, 

But  woe  to  him,  who  hears 
In  that  sad  space,  a  gentler  song. 

He  shall  renew,  in  tears, 
His  toil  among  the  empty  fields 

Of  God's  ungathered  years. 

In  distant  lands,  where  leafy  palms 

Kise  in  a  barren  clime, 
The  wanderer,  musing  at  their  feet, 

Can  hear  the  far-off  chime 
Of  Sabbath  bells,  across  the  waste. 

The  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
By  memory  are  wrought,  until, 

To  the  sad  heart,  they  bear 
A  likeness  to  the  sounds  of  home  : 

And  he  can  sink  to  rest, 


THE   WATCHES    OF    THE    NIGHT.  181 

Beyond  the  surges  of  the  sea, 

With  echoes  thrilling  by, 
That  seem  to  wander  from  a  home 

Beneath  his  native  sky. 

But  there  are  wanderers,  where  the  palm 

Breaks  not  the  drifting  sand, — 
Whose  feet  are  loneliest,  when  they  walk 

Within  their  native  land  : — 
To  whom  the  chime  of  Sabbath  bells, 

Heard  in  the  evening  air, 
Summons  a  shadow  from  the  past, 

And  not  their  souls  to  prayer. 
Wanderers  are  these  homeless  men, 

Who  sit  beside  their  hearth, 
As  homeless,  for  their  need  of  love, 

As  any  on  the  earth. 

Oh  !  memory,  to  the  happy  thou 
A  sweet  enchantress  art, 


182  POEMS. 

But  all  thy  sorcery  is  denied 

Unto  the  saddened  heart. 
Her  face  I  see  in  all  the  hours, 

It  cometh  as  the  dream 
Our  Parents  knew,  when  never  more, 

By  wood  and  sunlit  stream, 
In  Eden  they  in  gladness  dwelt ! 

Within  the  desert  place, 
The  glory  of  that  Eden  fell 

Upon  each  sleeping  face, 
To  mock  the  waking  vision  with 

A  world  that  lay  around, 
When  all  the  glorious  sunlight  shone 

Upon  accursed  ground. 
Woe  to  the  memory  which  restores 

An  Eden  to  the  heart, 
When  angels  watch  the  closed  gates. 

And  only  say — Depart ! 


MY  LOVE  NO  SOLACE  IS. 

MY  love  no  solace  brings  to  thee, 

Thy  heart  is  closed  unto 
The  tribute  poor.     Before  the  gate, 

And  in  the  common  view, 
To  thee  I  have  an  offering  made, 

But  the  unopened  door 
Keceived  it  not ;  and  in  the  dust 

It  lieth  evermore. 

It  was  no  gift  of  royal  price. 

No  broidered  altar  cloth, — 
No  title  to  a  fair  domain, — 

Was  earnest  of  my  troth : 


184  POEMS. 

It  was  a  simple  inanly  love, 
Which,  like  an  Alpine  flower. 

Among  the  snows,  had  blossomed  in 
The  sunshine  of  an  hour. 

Twas  all  I  had. — I  could  no  more. 

And  while  the  fresher  hue 
Kemained,  I  know  the  perfume  stole 

The  closed  lattice  through, 
And  wooed  thy  wandering  footsteps  near. 

Near,  while  the  morning  breath 
Its  sweetness  wasted  on  the  air, — 

Aye, — wasted  to  its  death. 

Within  the  dust  the  offering  lies  ! 

I  watch,  with  folded  hands, 
The  withered  leaves,  half  lost  to  view 

Beneath  the  drifting  sands. 
I  know  that  if  the  opening  flower 

Could  thus  neglected  lie, 


MY   LOVE    NO    SOLACE    IS.  185 

In  all  the  time  it  shall  remain. 
Till  it,  unnoticed,  die. 

Die, — while  a  fuller  sunshine  falls 

Upon  thy  maiden  life  ! 
'Die, — ere  my  weary  steps  return 

Unto  the  endless  strife 
Which  I  with  fate  and  fortune  make  ! 

Die, — while  other  flowers 
Are  garlanded  by  happier  hands, 

To  grace  thy  bridal  hours  ! 

Then  shall  the  closed  gates  unbar, 

And  thou  with  angel  grace, 
Companioned,  on  thy  pathway  go. 

Remembrance  will  not  trace 
My  footprints  in  the  sands  of  life. 

And,  on  such  sunlit  day, 
The  breath  of  thy  full  joy  will  bear 

All  withered  leaves  away. 


186  POEMS. 

Yet  all  things,  which  have  lived,  remain  ! 

Kemain,  although  the  years 
Oblivion  promise,  as  they  go, 

And  though  the  past  appears 
Unto  us  a  forgotten  dream  ! 

Eemembrance  will  not  die  ! 
And,  in  a  day  to  come,  our  past 

Will  cloud  thy  thoughtful  eye. 

Will  cloud  it,  though  I  blame  thee  not ! 

For,  by  the  closed  gate 
Of  thy  young  life,  I  silent  stand  : 

Accepting,  as  my  fate. 
The  withering  of  life's  single  flower, 

And,  turning  to  depart, 
With  only  blessings  echoing  in 

The  silence  of  my  heart. 


MY  VISION. 

WE  were  not  friends  in  childhood. 

She  to  beauty  grew 
Far  from  the  maze  of  wildwood, 

My  footsteps  struggled  through. 

Kent  by  the  thorn, — 
Slow  climbing  o'er  the  fallen  tree,— 
With  heart  outworn 
By  long  expectancy 


188  POEMS. 

Of  open  fields  and  sunlit  streams, — 
Upon  such  Eden  space  I  came, 

And  saw  the  vision  of  my  dreams, 
And  breathed  her  name. 

In  the  golden  eventide 
We  wandered  through  the  meadows  wide. 

Would  you  behold  that  vision  fair  ! 

Think  not  of  starry  eyes, 
Nor  marble  brow,  nor  clustering  hair. 

Nor  blush  of  sunset  skies 
Mantling  in  the  cheek  of  youth. 

Upon  her  thoughtful  face, 
Enthroned  sat  the  purer  grace^ 
That  cometh  of  angelic  truth. 

Oh  !  balmiest  eves  ! 
When  in  the  lonely  woodland,  we 

Beheld  the  leaves 
Stir  in  their  slumber  silently, 


MY    VISION.  189 

As  the  low  night-wind  trembled  by, 

And  wandered  home. 
With  stars  dim  shining  on  our  way. 

Thrice  have  come 
Autumnal  shadows  since  that  day. 

Autumnal  shadows  !  yet  before 

Each  Autumn  came  a  Spring, — 
A  Spring  that  shall  return  no  more  ! 

Whose  blossoming 

Gave  promise  of  a  golden  fruit. 

I  know  not  why, 
But  yet  a  canker  to  the  root 

Came  ever  nigh. 
I  saw,  beneath  each  Summer  sky, 

The  blossoms  die  ! 

Such  is  the  worth, 
That  crowns  the  promise  of  the  earth  ! 


190  POEMS. 

There  is,  upon  the  Summer  air, 
A  breath  of  Winter  flying  past. 

The  forest  walks,  we  trod,  are  bare. 
Its  leaves  are  scattered  on  the  blast. 
Our  footsteps  never  more 

Shall  wander  by  the  willowed  shore 
Of  that  shallow,  rippling  stream, 
Whose  music  mingles  with  my  dream 

Time  with  trembling  hands, 
Counts  the  last  grains  of  golden  sands. 

The  tangled  maze  of  wildwood, — 

The  wearied  heart  of  childhood, — 
The  glimpse  of  fields  and  sunny  streams,- 

Are  now  as  dreams. 
The  wintry  time  of  life  is  near  ! 

And  never  in  another  year, 
To  me  that  vision  will  appear  ! 


MY    VISION.  191 

Upon  the  open  plain, 

I  see  the  sunlight  wane, 
Wane, — to  come  no  more  again  ! 
The  fields,  the  snow  shroud  only  wear. 

Life  will  never  know 
The  melting  of  that  shrouding  snow  ! 


WE  MAY  BE  PARTED. 

WE  may  be  parted.     Changing  winds, 

Upon  the  tossing  sea. 
Leave  each  alone  in  all  the  day. 

Yet  shall  the  haven  be 
Unto  our  wandering  barks  the  same. 

Near  to  the  calmer  shore, 
My  lonely  heart  shall  watch  the  deep. 

And  wait  thee  evermore. 


WE    MAY    BE    PARTED.  193 

Thou  art  upon  the  waves  alone. 

Alone, — and  yet  on  high 
God  sets  the  signal  of  thy  course 

Within  a  cloudless  sky  ; 
The  larger  sun  of  Holy  Truth, — 

Which  ever  brighter  grows, 
As  round  about  our  mortal  path, 

The  earthly  shadows  close. 

We  may  be  parted,  yet  I  watch 

Beside  the  calmer  shore, 
To  see  the  lifting  of  thy  sail 

The  far  horizon  o'er. 
The  changeless  beacon  lights  of  heaven, — 

The  breath  of  God,— will  be 
The  polar  star, — the  steady  wind, — 

To  bring  thee  unto  me. 

10 


THE  DEATH  OF  HOPE, 

WITHIN  the  chambers  of  my  heart, 
Hope,  weak  and  fainting,  lies. 

My  silent  thoughts  in  sorrow  look 
Upon  her  as  she  dies. 

They  wait,  until  she  breathes  no  more, 
To  close  her  glazing  eyes. 

There  is  no  mark  of  age  upon 
Her  wan  and  pallid  face. 


THE    DEATH    OF    HOPE.  195 

Her  beauty,  though  by  sorrow  dimmed, 

Retains  the  olden  trace, 
Which  to  her  mien  in  childhood  gave 

A  more  than  angel  grace. 

She  is  not  old,  and  yet  the  tears 

Have  frequent  channels  worn 
In  that  fair  cheek,  whose  color  once 

Flushed  like  the  Early  Morn, 
When,  in  her  chamber  in  the  East, 

The  infant  day  is  born. 

She  is  not  old,  and  yet  her  thread 

Of  mortal  life  is  spun. 
The  sands  within  her  broken  glass, 

Once  golden  in  the  sun, 
Drop  slowly  in  the  darkness,  and 

At  last  have  ceased  to  run. 

Within  the  chambers  of  my  heart, 
Hope  now  is  lying  dead. 


196  POEMS. 

My  speechless  thoughts  in  sorrow  leave 

Their  rising  tears  unshed. 
And  close  the  chambers  evermore, 

Where  she  is  sepulchred. 


CONCLUSION. 

Here,  Memory,  pause  ivith  folded  hands, 
And  to  the.  Past  return  no  more. 

Oh  !  why  recall  the  golden  sands, 
The  dream  upon  the  Ocean  shore. 

The  Summer  time,  in  which  ivas  set 
The  sail  unto  the  favoring  breeze, 

Hath  to  the  Autumn  changed,  and  yet 
There  is  no  sign  of  halcyon  seas. 

Here,  Memory,  pause  with  folded  hands, 
And  to  the  Past  return  no  more, 

For  never  shall  its  golden  sands 
Renew  the  footprints  on  the  shore. 


